


Xenia

by truc



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alfred Pennyworth is the Best, Alfred is British, Angst, Bruce is a God, Bruce is grieving, Bruce's Parents Are Dead, Bureaucracy, Gen, Gods, Gotham, He knows how to do everything except being a kid's guardian, Humour, International Greek style pantheon, Or Bruce taking Alfred in?, Sacrifice, Whichever you like is fine, beautiful friendship, god AU, guess what happens, historical setting (sometime in the 1700s), law of hospitality, or Godling?, retelling of Alfred taking Bruce in, weird god pantheon somewhat based on Greek Gods
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:54:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24086962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/truc/pseuds/truc
Summary: When he, an outsider, is set to be offered to a pagan God, Alfred believes he just needs to untie himself and run away before the priestesses or priests come back to kill him.How he ends up being said God's guardian is anyone's guess.
Relationships: Alfred Pennyworth & Bruce Wayne
Comments: 10
Kudos: 56





	1. First meeting

When Alfred found himself bound and left as a sacrifice for the Gods of Gotham, he figured he should hurry and untie himself before the fanatics came back for the killing dagger or whichever weapons they used to carry out the sentence.

Thankfully, these backward citizens seemed to have a slacken idea of how to bound someone. First, they had bound him above his clothing, thus granting him more lee room to free himself. Second, Alfred had fooled them with the easiest trick in the book; he had stuck his thumbs together while the other side of his hands, hidden by the front, had a wider stance, thus creating the illusion of being tightly bound while he got more wiggle room. Finally, these ruffians had secured his hands in front of himself. 

All of those amateur mistakes neatly tallied up made it easy for a well-read traveller such as Alfred Pennyworth to plot his escape. Hence, Alfred started his usual contortion routine to free his hands. 

Bloody simpletons, he thought as his hands moved. 

Visit New England, they said. It's a sight to see, they said. 

Alfred had never more regretted his sense of adventure as the day he had disembarked at the dismal port on the other side of the ocean, seven weeks of claustrophobic proximity, sicknesses and nauseating smells. There was no bloody civilization waiting on this side of the Atlantic, only roaming ruffians and rough stretches of roads and buildings. 

Disbelieving the poor welcome represented the best of that new world, Alfred had travelled around, more disappointed each day by the dull life and the backward traditions. 

In certain regions, his fellow, supposedly rational thinking, Britain citizens had even devoted to the Natives' Gods. 

Alfred, ever eager to experience something interesting-which is how he had ended up in this predicament in the first place- had gone East to find this supposed capital of pagan devotees, Gotham. 

Gotham, bloody Gotham!, Alfred cursed as the rope wiggle a bit more loosely. 

Coming into town, he'd been impressed with the view, grand in nature, dark in intent, as if painted by a depressed drunkard with a death wish. The bridges, the road, the buildings, constructed to impress with their sharp beauty rather than functionality, unwind against the sinister sea, ominous in its tainted shade, grace in its movement as if it were a living organism rather than inert. The sky as tempestuous as the untamed nightmare stallion of legends consumed the hard-earned horizon of the barely civilized land. The harshness of the rain penetrated Alfred's clothing like Death's fingers, chilling him to his bones and forcing him to look for a shelter in this impressive and dreadful town. 

As he walked in the almost emptied streets of Gotham, he noticed the overuse of gargoyles and grimaced: those things were dangerous ornaments. In the heart of Great Britain, many scholars and architects had declared downpipes superior over waterspouts at parapet levels, safer at least. Better yet, Alfred had heard more than enough horror stories about how gargoyles or other ornamental nonsense fell upon or near unsuspecting citizens. That particular enlightenment had yet to reach this dark city. 

Up ahead, Alfred squinted at the crooked tree sign (or so it seemed) hanging over a dark wood door, one he hoped marked an inn's presence.

Before he'd even reach the presumed inn, a crowd came from a nearby alley, carrying snuffed out torches; some townpeople pointed at him, then surrounded him, yelling things Alfred hadn't been able to comprehend, before tying him- not without a fight- and bringing him to a dark building with a prominent pane of stained glass adorning it (probably ordered at considerable cost from overseas) Alfred supposed was the town's place of worship. 

Hands carried him through stone arches, his head swimming from the stench of drenched and muddied clothes combined with the fragrant proximity of rascals and the bruises he'd just gained. Coupled with the overwhelming disorientation and lack of point of reference, the traveller felt the familiar movement in his stomach, the one he'd suffered for weeks on end on the devil sea. 

Finally, he was dropped unceremoniously on the ground of a large room. Beside him, there was food and drinks heaped on a grand stone table. 

The townpeople started arguing among themselves, some gesturing at Alfred, others at the food and drinks. The traveller caught the word 'offering' repeated enough by the mob to understand the truth of his current unfortunate predicament. Eventually, a burly man whispered some diatribe about respecting a holy place and everyone, except tied up and confused Alfred, filed out of the room.

Ten minutes in Gotham and Alfred was cold, injured, angry, hungry and wholly confused about the offering portion of his evening. He would certainly recommend the route to the ones who suggested he proceed on this foolish trip. Although the hosts' manner left much to be desired, Alfred had to admit the giant crooked tree and wave stained glass, especially if viewed from the ground, was quite an elegant display of excellence. 

Lamentably, this was no time for sightseeing; Alfred had more pressing matters to attend, more precisely his tied up hands and feet as well as freezing fingers.

He went to work on it.

After some time, Alfred gingerly removed the rope around his hands and was about to start on the legs when he noticed a kid- aged somewhere between five and twelve, Alfred had no idea- staring at him. Alfred stared back, unsure how to proceed: threaten him or request him to stay silent. 

"Can you teach me how to do that?" The kid indicated the rope with a nod of his head. 

"I don't have time for that, boy," the weary traveller said as his hands unknotted the rope around his legs. 

The kid continued to look at him until Alfred had won his fight against his splintered covered fingers and the rope. 

"You can stay at my house."

By reflex, Alfred almost refused the offer, until he shivered in his damp clothes, remembering he was in a town full of people ready to tie him up and sacrifice to their pagan gods for no provocation on Alfred's part except visiting this bloody town. He could use a bit of local help, especially considering the price wasn't steep.

"I'll take you up on your offer, boy."

The boy nodded, looked around, found a bag and threw it Alfred's way. At the traveller's perplexed look, the boy said: "fill it up with the offerings."

What a sacrilegious person, Alfred mildly thought as he filled the bag with a loaf of bread, some vegetable and a few apples, but it explained the kid's presence in the temple and why he hadn't raised the alarm. It was also comforting to see that he wasn't the only one unafraid of the wrath of the pagan gods in this barbarian culture. 

Nonetheless, he was in a hurry to be out of this sinister place of worship. So much so he overlooked something crucial.

If Alfred's eyes had focused a bit more on the being proposing the deal, he might have noticed their face was unearthly bright like a seashell and smoothly eroded like a polished riverbed rock; his eyes mirrored the turbulent sea's colour, saturated with variants of grey, blue, green and swirling white foam; his clothes were too dainty for a common thief; and a dark aura, if it could be called that, seemed to hover around him.

Instead, Alfred, overtired, had only seen a strange boy watching him and encouraging him to steal the temple's offerings. 

After the traveller had quickly filled his bag, they went on their way to the exit, Alfred hanging slightly behind the boy, hand on a dragger should it become necessary to escape this place. 

For a few seconds, their footsteps upon the floor were all the sound they heard. Then, other footsteps echoed around them, coming from the corridor in front of them. His self-preservation sense intact despite the harrowing night, Alfred grabbed the boy's shoulder and tried to hide in the first doorway they reached. 

Unfortunately, priestesses, or so Alfred deducted, appeared in front of them before they could hide. A dozen women from a diverse ethnical background looked shocked, aghast by their very presence in their temple. 

Suddenly, they pounced on them, household items in their hands, cold water abruptly falling on everyone's head. Alfred barely had the time to ponder where the water was coming from before someone yelled: stop. 

Their female aggressors immediately parted way for an ancient mixed-blood woman to make her way forward, her face's angles sharp with wisdom, her eyes piercing, her garments were made of a mixture of animal hide and European style clothes. 

She walked to them and bowed in front of the kid, saying words in a language Alfred didn't understand. 

The women's attitude morphed from outrage to astonishment and reverence; soon, they were all mumbling some chant. Confusion fell upon the tired traveller as he attempted to process the entire evening. 

"Gotham, Gotham," the women started intoning, too loud for Alfred's liking. 

Without blinking, the boy continued to walk on his way. He only turned around to glance at Alfred, as if he was wondering why Alfred wasn't following him. 

Too stunned, Alfred mechanically followed him, wondering what sort of magic was this, especially since the cold rain that had previously drenched him in the building had suddenly stopped. 

It was only once outside, in the mud and the grey rain, that Alfred figured the kid wasn't just any boy. Not only was he analyzing the previous baffling encounter with the priestesses, but he also noted that the rain didn't wet the boy's clothing. 

Every rational bone in Alfred's body roared that he runs as far away from this town and boy as quickly as possible. 

Fortunately, Alfred was not only a rational being. Right now, he would rather warm his flesh at a monster's house and get eaten for his trouble than freeze to death in the wild. He always placed his priorities in the right place. 

Nobody even seemingly noticing them as he followed the boy's lead and made their way to the edge of town, Alfred still clutching the offerings under his arms to protect them from the rain. His mouth watered at the thought of fire and food. 

By the time they arrived at an empty clearing, surrounded by forest and overhanging the river, Alfred was sure he'd have to place his feet near the embers to exorcise the chills running upon his skin. No matter, Alfred followed the boy (or monster) into a dark dwelling, one with chimneys and no lights.

The boy (or monster) led him to a room with a fireplace. There, he set about starting him, placing logs in a precise way before setting kindlings at one spot. With flint and steel, the boy sent flecks of light over his arrangement, some igniting the kindlings. 

As Alfred ambled closer to the saving warmth, he truly hoped that the logs would soon catch on fire; he had no desire to wait in the cold later that night when the kindlings had burned up. So engrossed was he in reviving his extremities, he didn't notice the boy was gone until he dropped back some clothes on an antique-looking chair. The boy then gestured Alfred to take them and led him to another room, one with its fireplace, a feather mattress covered with linen and heavy blankets. The luxury of the room unnerved Alfred as he changed into dry clothes. He found a basin and flowery scented soap and left them untouched. 

When he came down, he found the boy standing unmovingly in the kitchen, staring at the food Alfred had pilfered from the place of worship. Up to now, although he was an anomaly, the boy's actions in the house appeared mostly normal. Was the boy feeling regret for taking the food? 

The boy then took a potato, looked at it dubiously, threw it on a plate and tried to stab it with a knife. The knife got stuck in the vegetable. Scowling at his mishap, the boy took the knife's handle in one hand and attempted to pull it out with his other hand on the potato. 

As Excalibur of legends, the blade could not be pulled out by just anyone. And it wasn't the boy's destiny to pull it out. 

"I can cut the vegetables," Alfred offered, amused. The boy glared at him. 

"You can prepare the cooking pot," Alfred directed, "while I cut up the vegetables." The boy thought it over and nodded. 

As Alfred cut the carrots, the potatoes and the strange-looking round vegetable, he saw that the boy was looking in the drawers and cupboard for the cooking pot. Apparently, that boy had never helped with the food preparation. 

After he had cut up everything up in cubes, he found that the boy had managed to find, fill with water and heated the cooking pot over the fire. Alfred added in his vegetable, finding it a shame they didn't have bones to add to the meal. A great broth was a hard thing to find in New England. 

Alfred sat and watched the cooking pot continue to heat up, willing it to hurry. The boy laid down the loaf of bread and brought some butter, a butter knife and a bowl in front of Alfred. 

"Thank you," Alfred said. The boy fetched some ale and a glass. He gestured to a washbasin at the end of the room. 

Alfred washed his hands, feeling grateful he could finally tear away the soil and dried blood from them. 

Ravenous, Alfred ate up half the loaf of bread and, a while later, part of the boiled vegetables. The boy only watched him eat. 

As Alfred finished eating, the boy took the knife and bowl and placed them with soap in another washbasin. 

Although Alfred's head was bursting with questions, his eyes closed down before he could ask any of them.


	2. Gotham's Story

Alfred glanced at the yellowish hot drink in front of him, pondering whether he should risk drinking it in order not to indispose his host or whether it was too dangerous.

The priestess decided to take pity on him. "It's tea," she explained, "willow bark tea. It's quite common around here."

It certainly didn't smell like any tea Alfred had drunk before.

The priestess took her cup and swallowed a healthy sip. Then, she arched an eyebrow in his direction, clearly attempting to ridicule him.

Alfred took a sip and grimaced at the bitterness of the product.

"I ran out of honey to soften the taste," the priestess elaborated. "Willow bark tea relieves joint aches. I thought yours needed a bit of help, especially in this weather." Was she inferring he was old?

"I do not suffer from joint ailments," Alfred answered, dignified.

The priestess ignored his answer. "Now, to what do I owe this visit to?"

That woman was sure straightforward, Alfred wryly thought. "I have questions that need answering; you might have the answers I seek."

She nodded, agreeing to his statement.

Looking straight in the priestess's dark brown eyes, Alfred asked: "Who is _**he**_?"

The woman pushed back her stray grey hair impatiently back as she inhaled sharply. "That's not a question I'm fully competent in answering."

Why not?

The priestess slightly tilted her head. "However, I can impart you some information. Would you like to hear about his origins?"

"It would be greatly appreciated."

The rain continued to fall upon the pedestrians insane enough to venture out of their warm homes. Since he was one of them, Alfred was intimately aware of the foolishness of the endeavour. Nonetheless, it would be more demented not to seek answers while living for days with such a strange fellow.

The first morning, he woke up in front of the fireplace in the living room, he had thought he could discreetly gather his clothes and leave before the strange kid, one with seemingly the power to make rain fall in buildings, could wake up. Then, as he stood, he noticed the kid was sitting not far from his perch, entranced by the fire simmering in the fireplace. The boy- monster, or whatever he called himself- had turned at the sound, eyes as unseeing as a blind man, looking through his guest.

And, somehow, the boy's loneliness seemed graphic enough for Alfred to feel awful about leaving him alone in this grand house. That day, the guest prepared meals and cleaned up the house; during the entire time, he told himself this was simply payback for the child's kindness.

When the second day came, Alfred tiptoed downstairs with his bag placed on his shoulder. The same image of the boy staring into the fire greeted his sight. Alfred cooked meals, cleaned the house and attempted, in vain, to engage the boy in a conversation to at least gain his name. That night, he convinced the boy to sleep in the boy's room.

When Alfred wandered downstairs for the third morning-no bags on his shoulders, he found the boy gazing at the central fireplace's embers. Adventures still drew him, however the boy's situation was untenable and; Alfred would be a very poor guest if he didn't pay him back. After preparing the boy's and his meal, Alfred unwisely walked to downtown Gotham to get some answers. From his previous disastrous experience, he knew the only one who seemed to know anything about the boy was the pagan priestess. Hence, why Alfred had asked to meet the priestess; be he sacrificed or not, he was determined to find answers.

The priestess had looked bemused at his haggard appearance, but willing to answer his questions.

"What do you know about Gotham's worship practice?"

"Very little, I fear," Alfred answered.

The priestess's lips curled up. "Long before Europeans came, Gotham was a very extraordinary place for the natives. Legends say that the God of Gotham is the first being to live on this ground since Gaia brought life to Earth. He's also one of her countless grandchildren, one of her favourites. When the natives sprung from clay, Gotham taught them how to survive harsh winters, how to heal injuries and illnesses. Back then, he had a different name, one that your tongue can't utter. We worshipped his name all across this land. When your people came upon our land like locust upon our fields, we prayed for his wisdom and; he warned us of the upcoming changes. Someday, our land would be bought and sold and us with it, exchanged for pitty offerings. In all of his wisdom, the God of Gotham suggested we make a settlement of mixed origins, one of harmonious discourse between our people, an example of cultural exchange without diminishing anyone's importance. The land, he said, would be his to lend according to our settlement's council's agreement. We followed his instructions. We gave birth to Gotham through the will of our God, renamed Gotham, and our efforts. People came and, we prospered, despite misunderstandings and frictions. We established this church to facilitate our communion with our God. Years ago, I became the head priestess of Gotham."

As enlightening as the explanation was, Alfred wondered how this answered anything about the boy's origins. "As interesting as this is, how is this linked with the boy's origins?"

The gal took another sip of her tea. "Gotham's origins and his origins are similar. The God of Gotham took residence outside of Gotham to look over his project. One day, from what I heard, he beheld the most beautiful being he had ever seen; a nymph, a nereid to be exact, by the name of Maera. He courted her for years until she finally responded to his ardour. The boy is the child born of their union."

Alfred's mind whirled with questions. Where were the boy's parents, then? Had they abandoned him? He was a God's son?

"What is his name?"

The priestess shook her head. "He doesn't have his adult name yet, only the traditional: Gotham's Son. At puberty, he should gain a name based on his accomplishments, instead of his father's name."

What a mouthful, Alfred frowned. "Where are his parents?"

The priestess's eyelashes twitched as she seemed to sink in her chair. "A dozen nights ago, the sky boomed with a peculiar type of thunder, one we had never witnessed before. Black rain fell upon Gotham. Then, I had a vision of Gotham, the God, disappearing, butchered to death. After some time in the sweating lodge, the foresightedness only reaffirmed my certainty that someone had murdered our God and his wife. The people of Gotham have been bringing offerings to make the cold rain stop before our crops rot."

"That's why they sacrificed me?"

The priestess appeared taken aback as she blinked at him. "Nobody sacrificed you. They were whispers God's servants had abandoned their stations; the Gothamites are an extremely superstitious lot; they probably believed Gotham dismissed them in anger and needed new blood. Although offerings of servanthood usually occur voluntarily, the citizens were going a little demented with the black rain staining this city and the cold unstopping rain that has since followed."

Alfred's jaw dropped; so, the people of Gotham hadn't meant to sacrifice him on an altar? They only wanted to offer him as a new servant to their God?

"When we found you and our Lord, Gotham's Son, we were heading to release you. I didn't think that any members of our God's family would attend in person to the church- something that hadn't happened since the black rain- and that you would conclude a contract of servitude on your own with our divinity."

"What contract?"

The priestess furrowed her brows and gestured to him. "Aren't you his servant?"

Alfred had to review his only verbal discussion with- apparently- a God's son.

_"You can stay at my house."_

_"I'll take you up on your offer, boy."_

Had Alfred unwittingly agreed to the boy's servant?

When Alfred explained the situation, the priestess seemed amused. "You became a guest, not a servant."

Relief bloomed in the traveller's chest. "Then, I'm not bound by some law to stay."

"No, you're not," she confirmed. "As long as you follow the rules of hospitality, you can leave whenever you want. I'm surprised you haven't."

Alfred was as stunned as she was. Customarily, he would have already departed from such a predicament. Had he stayed for the sake of the orphaned God's son?

The woman's piercing eyes seemed to comprehend his entire dilemma. "If you can," she started, "could you take care of him for some time? At least, until he's stable? The rain has been decreasing since you've appeared and, a child- of divine nature or not- shouldn't be left alone at his parents' death."

Alfred already had his answer on his tongue: had already the words this was Gotham's problem, not his. Instead, he thought about the lonely silhouette, unable to sleep, incompetent to take care of himself and barely able to say any words.

A child with murdered parents...

...Who could murder a God? Nevermind that! First, do pagan Gods exist? Maybe the boy's father was a charlatan, living off legends or children's stories.

But the child might have the power to make rain fall in buildings.

That doesn't make sense. Alfred had to be overtired if that's the conclusion he had drawn from a cracked ceiling. Besides that exceptionally confusing moment, Alfred had never seen the child use 'power.'

All in all, the child was probably the most recent victim of his father's charlatan's practices; none of the citizens seemed to realize this 'Gotham' had lied to them about his divinity. Moreover, the gods were immortal, so the child's father had to be human.

Alfred was suddenly afraid of what the Gotham citizens would do to the child if they figured out the hoax. Would they kill him? Would his parents' murderer kill him? Would he die alone in his parents' cold house, abandoned for fear of upsetting a divinity?

Pushing himself up, the traveller nodded in the woman's direction before hurrying to the exit. Hand on the doorknob, he turned and spoke, "I am dreadfully sorry. I forgot to introduce myself. Alfred Pennyworth at your service."

The woman smiled at him. "Leslie Thompkins. That's my European name."

Alfred removed his sooked hat from his head. "Glad to make your acquaintances, Miss Thompkins."

"Shall we ever meet again, traveller?"

" I'll keep an eye on the little one until someone can take over," he responded, voice steady.

"Thank you for your benevolence. Please take some food from the altar, lest we waste it."

"That would certainly be a shame." Alfred walked back to the altar and chose his food meticulously.

After Alfred found his way back to the lonely house's fireplace, the boy had started off his reverie and stared at him. "You came back," the child mumbled, shocked with a hint of hopefulness. The older man felt so bad for almost leaving this child alone without so much as a goodbye.

"Food doesn't simply appear in one's plate; someone has to fetch it, namely me."

"You came back," the boy repeated, with a hint of relief.

"Of course I did, boy." Alfred wasn't about to call him Gotham's son. "You know, I keep calling you boy, but that's not your name."

The younger male didn't even blink.

"How should I call you?"

Teeth dug in the boy's pale lips; hands played with his clothes.

Alfred had to change tactics. He lowered himself to the child's height. "You wanted to learn how to undo some knots, right?"

The boy nodded. He was so pale that he must be anemic, Alfred thought. He needed hearty food in his diet and some exercise.

"Do you want me to teach you how to be a spy too?" Alfred asked in a conspirational tone.

The boy nodded again, some light finally reflecting in the child's cloudy eyes.

"Then, we must wisely choose names and occupations that fit our appearance. What is your name?"

Alfred was leaving it up to the boy to pick a name, one that wasn't associated with how his parents were calling him if he wanted.

"I... Can you give me examples of boys' names?"

Alfred nodded. "Archibald, Harvey, Dennis, Duncan, Ellis, Caleb, Seth, Obadiah, Gideon, Zebulon, Cyprian, Lionel, Magnus, Marmaduke, Titus, Absalom, Theodore, Zurishaddai..."

The boy shook his head. Picky child, Alfred noted, that boded well for the future.

"Sacheverell, Lancelot, Cuthbert, Jabez, Justin, Noah, Matthias, Bryan, Schu..."

The boy tilted his head at the last name.

"You like Bryan?"

"Bruce," the child said.

That's not a proper British first name, Alfred almost argued, that's a family name. Well, in that case, they should find him a family name.

"Now, we need to find you a family name that goes with your surname." After another lengthy list, Bruce picked "Wayne" as his last name.

Alfred could manage with the strange naming sense; at least, now, he could call the boy something other than "boy" or the ridiculous "Gotham's son."

"Bruce, could you add more logs to the fire? I'll be cooking a soup tonight." Alfred tried. The child immediately acceded to his request.

A God's child. What nonsense was that? Thankfully, Alfred was not one easily swayed by superstitious nonsense. He'd show those uncultivated citizens the child wasn't a danger or deity; then, someone else would raise the child.

At that moment, the British traveller still had no idea what was in store for the child in his care and himself. If he had, he wouldn't have been quietly waiting for the Gotham citizens to change their mind; he'd have run away, the boy in tow, long before attending the pantheon's "emergency" meeting and feeling its numerous ripple effect.


	3. Relative

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pantheon call in a urgent family meeting to deal with what happened with Bruce's parents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed Marta to Maera, a real nereid's name.

Routine became Alfred's life. Every day, he'd prepare meals, looked after the garden and tried to teach something to Bruce. Quick-witted and stubborn, Bruce soon achieved minor accomplishments with the basics he'd learned. Sometimes, Alfred felt a strange sensation of pride rise in his chest, one, his self-determined instincts promptly squashed. Every third day, the traveller went to town to gather information and gauge the situation. 

From those trips, he collected more gossips than he'd even had before. He'd learn from the butcher that the usually exceptionally sunny Gotham summer hadn't made its appearance since Bruce's parents' death. He'd heard, from the local market gossiper, that Gotham and his wife came to visit the town once in a while. 

Leslie's tales, more outlandish by far, detailed the myth behind the presumed God of Gotham. As confused as Alfred had been at the explanation of an ancient war between gods and titans, the Titanomachy, he understood the God of Gotham had chosen the gods' side and had been tortured and imprisoned for it. At the end of its war, the God had hidden in Gotham (before it was called Gotham) to recuperate. Numerous tales described how Gotham had taught natives how to care for the land, how he instructed them to cultivate and forage food. 

Leslie even gave personal chronicles of the God of Gotham's struggle with the multi-ethnic, multi-language, multi-cultural town of mortals he had to oversee. Seemingly, immortals, gods, in particular, had a lot of difficulty following the human fast pace.

"Gotham," Leslie said, "was a god that wanted the best for humanity, but he was a bit stuck in the technical side of the equation. His wife, Maera, was an immortal still filled with hope and understanding. Each year, she came and blessed our orphanage and hospital with her glorious gifts; either food, clothing or magic. They made quite the team."

As much as Alfred had grown to allow the bark tea's continued existence, the only reason he visited Leslie this often was to talk about Bruce. 

Bruce. Sigh.

For all of his enormous intellectual and physical gifts, the boy refused to meet anyone but Alfred. 

The traveller attempted everything he could think of to get him outside of his house and land without any luck. Leslie gave him ideas or tips on how to deal with troubled children, some of which helped without solving the fundamental issues. 

Departing alone seemed less and less likely as an option. Alfred couldn't bear to leave the child alone and, fostering the child's relationship was an utter failure. What could Alfred do? 

In jest, he asked Leslie about Bruce's relatives. Next, she avalanched him with tales so ridiculous the Gotham's stories seemed tame and sane. 

So, when, two months after Bruce's parents' death, Bruce announced they had to visit someone, Alfred had been both relieved and perplexed. Instead of heading to town, Bruce wordlessly guided him to a cavern near the house. When bats flew above them, Bruce took Alfred's hand in a death grip, but he refused to explain who they were going to see. 

Farther down, with only a candle lighting their way, Alfred and Bruce stumbled upon a scene out of nightmares; therewith, a dark horse with flaring nostrils waited for them and black enfolded wings spanning the cavern's entryway. 

Letting go of Alfred's hands, Bruce spoke to the horse in a foreign language. Before the older man could react, the dark stallion approached them and kneeled on the cold hard wet cavernous floor. Bruce spoke again in a foreign language and used his eyes to indicate to Alfred to come hither. 

With difficulty, the boy drew himself on the stallion's back and looked in Alfred's direction. 

There was a blank in the older man's mind until he realized he had been the mutton-headed person these past weeks. 

Gods existed; Bruce's father was one of them and, winged horses lived.

A bit much of intellectual overload, Alfred noted. However, it wouldn't be the first time that he would milk a pigeon, Alfred dryly thought when he pulled himself behind the calm child.

The horse trotted to the exit and opened his wings to fullness, jumping upon the cliff. Alfred almost yowled, the great wings beating near his side, his grip tight on the boy and the horse's back. 

The boy, cuddled to his chest, seemed unruffled by the whole sitting-on-a-flying-horse-episode, which immensely offended Alfred's self-dignity. Insomuch as Alfred could remember, he had always been the stiff upper lip person.

Seeing how the horse continued to fly through the clouds, the boy and himself were soon damp. Alfred revised all he knew about the Gotham's myths, trying to figure out whether Olympus was the only dwelling in the sky. To his knowledge, it was. 

Bruce had decided to visit his relatives a whole two months after his parents' death, Alfred realized. Maybe it would solve his current predicament. 

Alfred felt the prickle of hurt and loneliness at the thought of separation. But it was for the best; Alfred was woefully ill-equipped to deal with a child, nevermind one with magic powers and queer origins. 

Then, a floating island appeared, grandiose in size and appearance, beautiful buildings and fauna enhancing the sublime scenery. The constructions of various measurements faced the tallest of them, all the way to top of the mountain. The sun's light appeared to shine unequivocally favourably on the island, but mostly on the gigantic marble white temple atop the peak, glittering with star's sparks and everlasting rainbows. Among the brick-laid path serpenting among the dwellings, creatures of semi-humanoid appearances walked and trotted; some had animalistic qualities, others had elemental ones, yet others had unclear origins. 

That was sorcery, all right. 

Bruce's horse didn't stay one moment to appreciate the view, no, he continued on his way to the impressive white-columned temple atop the magical island. 

Alfred wondered why he was even here. 

Guards, armed with the diverse armoury, some ancient in fashion, others almost identical to the ones Alfred had seen in the War of the Spanish Succession, surveilled their arrival with wariness. Their overcautious stances relaxed when they seemed to recognize the horse. The horse flew to a docking deck beside the temple. Immediately, a servant boy- but who knows what matter of being it was, Alfred thought- came and fed the dark horse. 

Bruce brushed the horse's mane, whispered something in the same foreign language he had previously used and jumped off the animal's back. Alfred followed suit, disoriented, but adamant not to let it show. 

The boy started walking to the temple's entrance, Alfred at his heels. Although the guards and servants gave them strange looks, nobody interposed between themselves and their destination. 

From inside, the temple appeared even grander, more luxurious and pretentious: paintings from great artists adorned the room, gold-plated white marble columns decorated with plants. Some peacocks wandered in Bruce's determined path while the boy kept his unfazed look. 

When they arrived before an ornated heavy oak door, servants' eyes widened at them. Bruce walked ahead, unconcerned by the servants' panicked gestures, and pushed wide open the doors. 

Conversations inside immediately stopped as all heads swirled in their direction. Alfred knew in less than a second that the people around the table were the gods' pantheon. 

At the head of the table, a scrawly and bearded sun-tanned loosely dressed man, sprawled upon his seat; he looked like an unmarried sailor did a day after he returned to his home tome, pissed drunk and hungover. His disinterested eyes seemed to light up at the intruder's appearance. Zeus, leader of gods, Leslie's explanation came to mind. 

If there were one thing Alfred would eventually learn about him, it was that he was frivolous, unpredictable and extremely dangerous. 

At his right, his wife, Hera, the goddess of marriage, a freckled, fair-skin, auburn and green-eyed matron with an impeccably clean complicated dress looked more annoyed than anything with the interruption. 

Although her straight-laced tendencies would initially irritate Bruce, he would eventually make her one of his more stable connection with the pantheon. Contrary to Zeus, she was unchanging and reliable (unless you were someone that had slept with her husband; in that case, doom was your only future). 

At his left, sat, according to Leslie's descriptions, Hades, the god of death, a man with skin of various tones of ash colour, from paper ash to dark lumber ash. His pupils were pure white and his dark grey lips; his hair, fluttering leaves ash. His clothes were rustic and as neutral coloured as his skin tones. He appeared unconcerned by Bruce and Alfred's arrival. 

Initially, Bruce would blame him for his parents' death. However, some years further down the road, Hades would give Bruce a forgotten family painting of his family; the boy would realize Hades had nothing to do with his parents' death. Much later, Bruce would come to rely on Hades' sense of duty to perform his duties. 

At his side, Alfred will later learn, was his wife, Persephone, a petite yellow-tinted-skin high cheeked woman with cascading green-hued hair to her hips. She wore a soft pink silk dress- a kimono Alfred later learned- with flowery motives. Her dark bark eyes widened, perplexed at the entrance. 

Alfred would eventually come to appreciate her quiet presence and her horticultural knowledge. 

Beside her, an ebony-skin van neck with fabulous curls gushing from her head sat with a beguiling smile on her lips. The dark red dress with decorative circle-shaped-coloured motifs hugged her generous assets in a way that made Alfred blush. She had to be the goddess Aphrodite, the goddess of beauty and love. 

Years later, she would casually offer to find him a beautiful lover- an offer Alfred would be wise enough to politely declined with a reminder that Bruce was still too troublesome for Alfred to dally with a lover. Her amusement at the time had reassured him he wouldn't have to suffer through her terrible tribulations. Unfortunately, Bruce wouldn't get as lucky. 

Beside her, to her left, sat a naked brown broad-chested man with huge necklaces around his neck, white painted signs on his chest and face and yellowish loincloth slung around his hips. His pectorals were impressive, Alfred jealously thought of Poseidon, the god of the sea. 

Leslie had described him as temperamental; Alfred's experience would confirm that was an apt description of him. He was also the one who had gifted the winged horse to Maera for her wedding. 

Opposite Poseidon sat Apollon, a sable-skinned man with brown hair and bright clothing- Alfred would later learn their name: the poncho. Eventually, the traveller would remember which domain the god represented (art, music, poetry, healing and light). Younger than most Olympians and out of everyone else present, he looked the most sympathetic to Bruce's plight.

To his left sat Athena, the goddess of wisdom, handicraft and warfare, a dark-skinned stoic-looking woman with strange royal blue clothing draped perpendicularly across her shoulder to her hip with a bodice and a petticoat- Alfred eventually acquired the name sari. A golden helmet rested on her brown hair. She looked intrigued by Bruce and Alfred's presence. Years later, Bruce would strike up a mutually respectful friendship with her. Their domains intersected with one another and, they had similar interests. After all, they were both known for their thirst for knowledge and justice. 

Alfred would ultimately deduct their close bond was a cause for Aphrodite to make Bruce fall in love with one of the most unobtainable beings possible. Despite her rivalry with Athena, Aphrodite wasn't allowed to make her fall in love with anyone. Although, it was also quite possible Aphrodite only wanted to overpower the up-and-coming morally rigid god. Gods were surely that fickle, especially the goddess of love. 

Between Hera and Aphrodite sat Ares, the god of war. Where Hades was ash-coloured, Ares was amber and fire-coloured, some light as candlelight, some raging like a bonfire, some intense like long-burning amber. A helmet, more ornery than Athena's, donned his angular face. He appeared angry at Bruce and Alfred's arrival. 

No love-lost would exist between Bruce and him. Truthfully, even when they had the same objectives, their methods clashed so much they might not be on the same side. 

Alfred would later learn of the empty chairs' owners, but that isn't pertinent until Bruce would grow to learn the pantheon's intricacies, eons from then. 

Then, when Bruce slammed the doors open, Alfred regretted every single decision he had made about Gotham, from the idea of visiting the dreaded place to deciding to stay with a peculiar child. 

Bruce then spoke in a foreign language, in Olympian, Hermes later told Alfred. That blond chatterbox spread rumours like a windmill; present or not, he knew all the newest scandals, a fact Bruce would rather resent- it meant he often had to consult the prattler and have his inquiries circulate in the Olympian cliques. 

Be as it may, it's through the Hermes channel that Alfred got news about his protege. The messager god translated Bruce's message in these terms: "I am the son of *****, god of Gotham, and Marea. I demand to attend your meeting on their behalf."

"You shouldn't be here," Hera harshly told Bruce after the initial moment of surprise. By that time, Apollon had secretly weaved a spell for Alfred to understand what they were saying.

Zeus abruptly chuckled, a twinkle in his eye. "I fancy you already." Hera sent him an offended glance. 

"Take the seat," Zeus gestured to an empty seat beside Apollo. "It's yours by right. I'm glad to make your acquaintance, son of *****." 

"It's not the protocol we agreed upon," Hera replied. 

Zeus shrugged and sat straighter with a grin. "We'll get this emergency meeting over sooner with his help anyway."

Bruce marched, Alfred still glued to his soles, to the unoccupied seat. Nobody stopped him from seating at the table, though some frowned. 

"Let's continue our conversation," Zeus clapped his hands like a devious child.

Hades's pupilless eyes moved in Bruce's direction. "Is that wise?"

"He wants to be treated like a fully-fledged god, isn't that right, darling?" Aphrodite asked with a smile. 

Bruce nodded. Alfred stood awkwardly behind him, wondering why nobody had kicked him out yet. 

"This is war. The Titans must have found a way out," Ares spoke, continuing a prior argument. "We need to rally our troops..."

"I disagree," Athena stone-facedly interrupted him. "We have yet to find any evidence a Titan did this."

Ares glared at her. "Very few things can kill a god. According to Hermes, all divine items capable of that feat were under surveillance. There was no breach in our security. If not Titans nor weapons, then what could it be?"

"There's another explanation we have yet to explore," Hades calmly noted. 

They all fell silent, absorbed with the implication Alfred would eventually understand. You see, there were only three things that could smother an immortal: a divine item, a titan or a god. 

Ares slammed his hands on the table. "Ridiculous!"

"And quite tiresome to explore," Zeus agreed with a frown as he leaned his head in his hand. Suddenly, he glanced at Bruce. "Why don't we ask the child to help us resolve the matter?" 

Everyone looked at the child. Alfred could see the child's hands tightened in fists under the table. "They, whoever they may be, wore a veil."

"Did you see a weapon?" Athena asked. 

"No."

"Maybe we shan't interrogate him like this," Apollon suggested, eyes darting to Bruce's lap. 

"We need at least one more question answered: did you kill them?" Hades asked.

Bruce scowled at the god. "No," he asserted.

"Maybe, we should go to our second reason for calling this meeting," Hera suggested. 

Zeus snapped his fingers. "Right..." His eyes seemed to devour Bruce with interest. He gestured in his direction. "What do we do with our cute little god and Gotham?"

Nobody answered.

"Anyone wants to take care of Gotham and adopt this child until he reaches his majority?" 

Nobody answered though some studied Bruce. 

"No," Bruce said. 

Zeus tilted his head.

Bruce rose to his feet, his head barely visible above the table. "I will not be adopted. I will take care of Gotham."

"That's not conceivable," Hera dryly replied. "You need guardians."

Bruce looked at her, then noticed Zeus agreed with her.

"Alfred can be my guardian until I reach my majority."

Alfred is sure his heart stopped for a full second.

Silence. 

"Who's Alfred?"

"Isn't it the human's name?"

"What about Gotham's territories? Who will oversee it?"

"Not me."

"Alfred will," Bruce confidently said. 

When the other gods started to protest the idea, Zeus gave them an open-palm stop gesture. He scrutinized Alfred very seriously- a surprising change of demeanour. "Will you take care of the child and Gotham?"

Put on the spot, Alfred said the first thing that came to mind. "Yes, sir." 

After the words had left his mouth, he learned he meant it; he didn't want to let any of these beings- none of which had taken care of Bruce in the two months after his parents' death- to take care of Bruce. The gods had prioritized dealing with the murderer and finding a guardian for Gotham before discussing Bruce's guardian. Irresponsible behaviour, Alfred thought. 

"No need to call me sir," Zeus answered with a joking smile. "Call me your Highness."

With a glower, Bruce banged the table with his hand to show he disapproved of the god's humour at Alfred's expanse. 

Zeus's smirk deepened as he looked at Bruce. "Don't be upset, child, I'm jesting. I'll grant your request."

Hera frowned at her husband. Poseidon and Hades kept quiet and undisturbed as if the decision was already out of their hands. Alfred found their abdication worrying.

It took years for Alfred to understand that all gods had a say, but when Zeus made a judgment call, it was final, irrevocable. 

Years later, Alfred's uneasiness about Zeus favouring Bruce was confirmed; Zeus's next cupbearer will bear a striking physical resemblance to Bruce. And Alfred had heard enough Olympian rumours at that point to understand Hera's animosity with Zeus's cupbearers. Leslie had also inferred one of the many reasons the God of Gotham refused to introduce his family to Olympus was that his wife was magnificent and, Zeus's decisions could not be denied. 

However, long before Alfred's uneasiness was proven warranted, Alfred had already decided to keep Bruce as far away from Olympus as possible. 

At the end of the meeting, Bruce approached Poseidon. Alfred followed him. 

"You lent the winged horse to my mother," Bruce said.

Poseidon looked saddened for some reason. "Do not offer to return a gift. It would only insult me."

Bruce's eyes fixed on the much taller being as if to ascertain his honesty. "In that case, I thank you."

As Bruce turned to leave, Poseidon said, "Do not be as unlucky as she was."

"I won't," Bruce answered with a nod in the god's direction. 

Finally, outside, Alfred sighed in relief. At least, this ordeal had passed. Now, he had to gather his courage to raise Bruce for another ten years. Then, he could leave and return to Great Britain and drink real tea. 

With that deadline in mind, Alfred sat behind Bruce on the winged house, thoughts already crystallizing into that hope of eventual freedom.

If Alfred knew anything about parenting, he would know that his deadline was unrealistic. If Alfred knew anything about what the future held for Bruce, he would have quitted as guardian then and there. 

At seventeen, Alfred's ward would escape his care to explore the world. Bruce would train under the centaurs, fight against- then with- the Amazons, train under Artemis's tutelage (how he would convince the recluse would always be one of Alfred's mysteries) and enter Tartarus and fight some Titans. 

Bruce would eventually wander back into Alfred's range and get smothered with love. The boy would choose his name, Nemesis, the god of retribution and take the mantle of Gotham's guardian. He would use his powers to make sure even gods and magic creatures paid for their sins, which would earn him dangerous enemies, including, at times, Zeus. 

Bruce would go on bizarre quests and achieve the impossible. He would fall in love with someone unattainable. 

Through the heartbreaks and dangers, Alfred would be Bruce's rallying point.

And Alfred would always pretend his 'employment' contract expired when Bruce had reached his majority in his care, but that, since Bruce had spent his majority on the run, Alfred could never complete his terms. He was thus stuck with 'Master' Bruce until his death.

All the stray creatures Bruce picked along the way knew Alfred was lying. 

So did Bruce.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's the end! Thanks for the comments and the kudos. They keep me motivated.
> 
> Terminology used in the 1700s
> 
> Milk a pigeon: do the impossible.  
> Mutton-headed: stupid  
> van neck: a woman with large boobs.  
> Cute: used in the 18th century sense of shortened version of 'acute.'
> 
> Mythology nonsense:
> 
> Titanomachy: The ten year war between Olympians (newer gods) and the titans, with some exception. The Olympians won.  
> Pegasus: son of Poseidon  
> peacocks: Hera's animal
> 
> Inaccuracies:
> 
> 1) the gods' physical appearances and some of their powers; and  
> 2) Probably, the fact gods can die. Usually, titans or gods get lock away for all eternity in Tartarus or cut to pieces. I don't know if they can be killed. Yeah, Bruce's parents still die because of plot reasons.
> 
> If you find any other, let me know!

**Author's Note:**

> Xenia means the Greek code of conduct surrounding hospitality.


End file.
